


Heartbeat

by thebifrostgiant



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Romance, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, FrostIron - Freeform, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Loki (Marvel) Gets a Hug, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Iron Man 3, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Still Has Arc Reactor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebifrostgiant/pseuds/thebifrostgiant
Summary: In the blink of an eye, Tony Stark travels back to that awful moment in his tower years ago, the one that he still has nightmares about, with no one else but Loki who remembers the future.





	1. Falling and Falling

**Author's Note:**

> This idea just would not leave me alone, so I had to get started writing it. Of course, with Endgame on the verge of being out, absolutely all of this is going to exist outside of canon, but... it mostly does already anyway :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, there’s lots of swearing in this, by the way

Tony wakes with a jolt to the heart-numbing thrill of the clench of a hand cold as steel around his neck. He can’t breathe, can’t force his chest to move or his lungs to take in air he suddenly needs desperately, legs dangling uselessly over the hard tile of the tower floor. It is a familiar nightmare, even if it’s one that hasn’t haunted his sleep in recent nights, overlaid as it has been with fresher memories that follow him into slumber with their creeping, clinging claws. Tony can hear the echo of the words hissed in his ear, feel the remembered hot wash of breath terribly close to his face — _‘You will all fall before me’_ — and he knows if he looks up he’ll meet the too-bright gaze of fire blue eyes, and then he’ll be falling and falling and JARVIS won’t make it in time.  

He looks up anyway. He always does. And then he _is_  falling, but not through a shimmering cascade of glass and open air, with the ground approaching his fragile body horrifically fast. No, he merely crumples in a heap on the floor beneath him, no doubt bruising his knees and elbow to hell and back, released all at once from that god-awful grip, with the afterimage of startled green eyes catching in his mind like he’d looked into the flash of a camera, or the sun. 

That had never happened before. 

Always, the dream has been the same, following the pattern in a fixed trajectory, well-known as it is appalling. But this is different. Dropped without being thrown, Loki flinching away and staring at his hand like he’s been burned, haggard and gaunt as ever but with the distinct pallor of one about to be sick. This is new. And this shouldn’t be so.  

Because this is not... this is not a dream. 

“Stark!” Loki gasps, and there’s a loud clatter as Tony glares up at him, struggling to get to his feet and to not feel undignified, never taking his eyes off of Reindeer Games, the Sequel. 

“Loki,” he growls back, wary and warning and braced for a fight.  

But Loki is taking a step back, nothing but dread and fear in his face, then turning away, hiding his face in shaking hands and whispering _“no,”_ in such a shocked and profoundly distraught manner that deviates too far from the script for Tony to conclude anything besides this being the god’s second go around as well. 

“What did you do, Loki? What the fuck did you do?”

The anger helps. It’s loud enough to drown out the steadily welling fear in his chest, louder than the beat of his heart behind his- ah _shit,_ behind his arc reactor. Turns out throwing the godforsaken thing into the sea hadn’t been worth a damn. It hadn’t saved his relationship with Pepper, and it hadn’t stopped the panic attacks, the memories, the echos of too many times he had almost died centered around that bit of metal in his chest. Still, he has no wish to have it back, and it’s one of the many things on his currently expanding list of unpleasant surprises. 

First and foremost on that list being the insane alien prince or whatever making his invasion _número dos._ Even if said alien prince doesn’t look quite so insane, and actually seems to be hurt that Tony would even suggest that this was his fault, looking at him with eyes wide and- holy shit. He wasn’t _crying_ was he? Tony doesn’t like seeing people cry, especially when it’s because of him, but it would be just like him to make a millennia-old god cry within seconds, wouldn’t it? Even though it’s hardly his fault Loki’s eyes are suspiciously glossy — like a bottle, Tony thinks, one of those bottles with the green glass. He’d yelled at him, sure, but can he be blamed for that, considering the circumstances? How is _he_ the bad guy here?

“ _I_  am not responsible for thi-“ Loki cuts off so abruptly, so completely, it’s almost as if he’d never stared speaking, even though he’d said nearly a full, wholly indignant sentence. His eyes narrow and clear, honing in on Tony with razor-keen intensity, like all his overwhelmed, pre-tantrum energy has just discovered a focal point. Tony doesn’t particularly enjoy being said focal point. “What, exactly, is it you’re blaming me for?” 

And his voice is just as sharp as his gaze, and he takes a step forward that makes Tony uneasy, although perhaps not quite as uneasy as he’d be if the god didn’t seem so desperate, like he is begging Tony to admit that he also has somehow blinked back to this exact point, like if he did it would somehow make things better. 

Tony looks into the face of an enemy he had once hated and feared and feels almost nothing but pity, because Loki doesn’t seem murderous or dangerous or even mean. He looks young and vulnerable and so fucking scared. Perhaps this is why Thor is always so adamantly defending him. Maybe he’s not just Thor’s younger brother, but his _baby_ brother.  _Loki isn’t just a kid, is he?_ Tony thinks, somewhat alarmed because he can’t be. _Right?_  How can a being that’s a-thousand-and-who-the-fuck-knows years old be a _kid?_  

But now isn’t the time for whatever the hell this second-hand identity crisis is, because almost nothing and nothing are not quite the same, and Tony also feels a small amount of caution, or perhaps a healthy amount, because there’s just so much going on right now and he really can’t be certain that Loki isn’t just fucking with him.  _God of lies, and all that._

They both know it. Both know they’re staring down not only each other but some uncertain precipice of _how_ and _what_ and _why the fuck,_ and somehow, they’re both in the same boat. 

“So if this double-strength dose of déjà vu wasn’t you...” Tony asks instead of directly answering, keeping it just vague enough in case he’s misread Loki somehow. He raises an eyebrow in a silent ‘well?’

“You _are_ here too,” Loki murmurs, nodding to himself and running a relieved hand through his already hopelessly messy hair. Louder, he says, “I don’t know, Stark. There’s no way I- This is not my doing any more than it is yours.”

And maybe Tony shouldn’t be feeling quite so sorry for a miserable — and possibly _fledgling_ — god who had been responsible for so many deaths, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. 

“Would now be a good time for that drink?”

Loki laughs at that, caught off guard perhaps, but sounding too wet to have any real levity.  

“If that offer still stands, then yes.” 

Tony nods, and makes his way to the counter where his drink from years ago — or scant minutes, in this case. Time travel is confusing like that — sits abandoned. He shoves it aside and gets a new glass. 

“Did you want Scotch, or...”

Loki looks up from where he has been studiously examining the scepter on the floor, but from afar, like he doesn’t want to touch it again. “Whatever you were having, is fine.”

Tony fills the glass and walks over to Loki with the Scotch outstretched. Loki takes it with a quiet “thank you” — very polite, like the well-mannered prince he possibly was before deciding subjugating a whole planet was his game plan. Not really a great plan, whatsoever, if you ask Tony. And, he recalls, he might have said as much in the before-timeline, although Loki certainly hadn’t asked — and sips at it distractedly, mostly just holding it to his lips in a sort of fidgety way. Tony stands nearby, but not too near, because Tony is a paranoid bastard, and regards the scepter as well. 

“I’ll arm wrestle you over it,” he says lightly, because he doesn’t do well with tension this thick, such that it would be crackling perhaps if Loki were his brother. 

Loki gives him a strange look, almost like he hadn’t understood what Tony said. Which he should have. Unless the Allspeak thing doesn’t account for colloquialisms? 

“Ah, that won’t be necessary,” he says finally, catching on to the meaning of Tony’s words, although maybe he thinks it was meant literally. “You take it. Shut the portal.” And his voice has that pleading tone again, curiously. 

“Yeah, not sure I’m buying it.” Tony says harshly, causing Loki to flinch minutely and bump his lip with the rim of the glass. “You have... no desire to take over the Earth? Again?” 

“None whatsoever, no.”

Tony scoffs at that, even though Loki seems sincere, and has done so the whole time. 

“So, are you just, like, a capricious son of a bitch or do you have,” he makes a vague, encompassing gesture, “reasons?”

Loki glowers at him coldly as he lowers the glass of Scotch from his face and clutches it so tightly Tony thinks he might break it, what with his ridiculous strength that Tony knows about first hand. 

“I would thank you to not speak of my mother in that manner.” The words are bitten out, the courtesy a veneer for the anger beneath the surface. Right. She had died — and come to think of it, hadn’t _Loki_ died as well? _Probably not, the tricky bastard._ And the way Thor told it, she had been fond of Loki and he of her. He has every right to be angry. Except... 

“What was it again,” he says, affectedly confused. “ _Odin_ son?”

The glare melts away and the god gives another weak chuckle. 

“I suppose I can drink to that,” he toasts, and swallows back the rest of the amber liquid. “Both.”

“Pardon?” 

“Both. I do have reasons. But I cannot deny being capricious as well. It comes with the title. It’s in my nature.”

“God of chaos.”

“Among other things.” There’s an almost pleased glint to his eyes, a subtly upturned corner of his lip. 

_Mischief_ is obvious. _Lies_. Tony doesn’t know what else. _Agriculture, maybe?_

Tony reaches down to pick up the scepter, hefting it and adjusting his grip experimentally. Loki just seems leery. 

“Let’s say I trust you. This will stop your army?”

Loki presses his lips together, displeased by something Tony had said — he can’t possibly have expected to be believed so easily? — but he simply answers the question. 

“It worked before to close the portal.” 

“Yes, but that was the first time around. Maybe they’re back again, maybe they know what’s coming. We need a way to stop them if that’s the case.” Because who’s to say they’re the only ones making a return journey? Maybe there are others reliving today, like the other Avengers, or Pepper. 

Oh _fuck_. Pepper. They were still together in the original timeline. Still happy. Still playing pretend. 

“And what will happen if the Chitauri are not destroyed? If there’s no nuke this time.” And Tony can only go so far in preventing his voice from quavering as he thinks about how _much_ he does not want another nuke. “Will it just delay them until they can try again? Do they have another means of getting here?”

Loki hesitates, likely trying to decide which question to answer first. Or he might be coming up with some web to spin. Who knows. 

“Without the Tesseract, they would be relegated to travel by spaceship. As they are nowhere in proximity to Midgard, your Earth, it would take much longer than it is worth to arrive. Likely, they would not pursue the attack.”

“Likely? You don’t know? They're _your_ army.”

“Not exactly,” Loki whispers, eyes flicking downward. 

“What does that even mean?” Tony demands, then thinks better of it. “Never mind. Is this one of your ‘reasons?’” 

Loki nods, twisting the glass in his hands and not meeting Tony’s eyes. He’s... _scared_. Not in the same frantic way he had been earlier, that Tony had felt as well, but a much deeper, calm sort of fear, the type that speaks of resignation. Whatever had made the audacious god shake in his boots — Tony checks. He is actually wearing boots — couldn’t bode well for the rest of the puny mortal planet, most likely. 

“And if they’re expecting to be defeated? If they’re having a retroactive experience as well?”

“It is... not the most probable state of affairs. Even so, they would not anticipate being stopped this early. But there isn’t time for contingency plans, Stark.”

“Come on, then. We’ve got a portal to close. I don’t particularly want a repeat performance of what happened last time, and if you’re telling the truth, you don’t either.”

Loki freezes up, though, and does not, in fact, ‘come on.’ 

“Look, Grima, you’ve gotta realize that I can’t just leave you unattended. I’ll admit you don’t seem particularly stab-happy at the moment, but I can’t take that chance, so buddy system it is.” 

Loki gets that puzzled look again, but he does follow, and Tony keeps at least the corner of his eye on him as they go to Selvig and the Tesseract portal to stop the invasion before it can start. 

 

 

*

 

 

It’s rather anticlimactic, in the end. No aliens, no weird living spaceships, no fighting, wreckage, or collateral damage. Just the portal whirring back to nothing as easily as it had been opened, with Loki breathing a sigh of relief that matches Tony’s, and the now unnecessary team of Avengers. No bombs. Tony could not have been more thrilled. 

“You guys ever tried shawarma?” Tony says to his teammates, again, mostly because he’s incorrigible. The shawarma hadn’t even been that good. “There’s a restaurant a couple blocks from here. What do you say we all head over there for a bite to eat? Stopping invasions sure makes me hungry.”

They all, including Loki, just stare at him incredulously. Except Thor. Thor is staring at Loki with something like longing on his face. 

“Shawarma? You know, roasted meat on a spit-“

“Tony,” Cap says in that cut-the-bullshit tone, not that he’d ever say a word like bullshit, the prude, arms crossed over his chest oh so righteously. And yeah, Tony relents, perhaps they should address the elephant in the room. Said elephant being a six-foot-something prince from another realm who had started said invasion, once upon a time, and is now paying his nails excruciating attention, possibly to avoid looking at any one of the Avengers, and, more likely, Thor specifically. This is also a fantastic time to pry, to see if anyone else is living a flashback. 

“Everyone, this is Loki. I believe you’ve met before.” There’s just a slight bit too much weight to those words, but no one seems to catch it, besides Loki, but he’s already in the know, and since none of the glares have lessened, Tony suspects that this might be new for all of them. Or he’s just somehow been too subtle for once in his life. 

“Why is he with you?” Clint grits out, hand creeping back to reach for an arrow to nock on the bow he still holds tightly, despite not having used it. He doesn’t seem to consider this a truce. “And why do _you_ have the scepter?” And oh. Right. He still had that. 

“Would you rather he had it?” Tony asks facetiously, giving the scepter a little shake. “He helped stop the invasion. He told me how to close the portal.”

“He _started_ the invasion! He _opened_ the portal!”

“Actually, Selvig di-“

“Tony,” Nat cuts in, even though she’s sizing Loki up with a narrow eyed stare, “I think you had better expla-“ 

The rest of the sentence is lost to Thor’s whispered, but still resounding and unduly loud voice. 

“Loki? Is it true? You’re on our side now?”

And his eyes have that sort of watery look that makes Tony think that maybe all Asgardians just cry at the drop of a hat. 

Loki gives a curt nod, looking uncomfortable and at anything but Thor. 

“I’ve had time to... reconsider my actions,” he says carefully, quietly, and with far more sincerity than anyone but Tony would grasp at. 

Whatever had been holding Thor back collapses, and the god of thunder all but runs forward to throw his arms around his brother, somehow making Loki seem small in his crushing grasp. Loki makes a strangled sound, but then his hands come up to return the hug and clutch at the fabric of Thor’s cape.  

_Aww, it’s a Kodak moment!_

And then Loki all but shoves Thor away and everyone has a moment to stand awkwardly and try to process what all just happened. 

“I think now might be a good time for that explanation,” says Bruce, ostensibly calm in a way Tony recognizes as forced. 

Tony flicks a glance at Loki. _To tell or not to tell_.  

“Well, we were in the tower, as you know, and we exchanged some words, made some threats, I offered him a drink, he choked me-“

“Choked you?” Steve interrupts, appalled. 

“Yeah, choked me. And not even in the fun way.” He ignores the eyerolls, frowns of disapproval, and whatever the hell kind of noise Loki had just made. “And then he... snapped out of it, I guess. And he’s been more or less lucid ever since. That’s all I know.” Besides that tiny, major detail of traveling back in time, but let Loki decide if he wants to bring that up. “The floor’s all yours, Prongs.” 

Loki folds his hands behind his back and takes a discreet, steadying breath. 

“I was not in my right mind,” he says, somewhat cryptically. “Had not been for some time, in fact. But when I saw Stark’s face in front of me, the fear in his eyes as I,” he swallows, and his mouth quivers, looking contrite, “as I choked him, it made me come to the realization that it was not... a choice I could bear to make.” _Again,_ he does not say, but Tony hears it all the same. And no part of it is a lie, he realizes. How it had happened, the redo aspect of it was left out, and maybe it was a misleading truth, but it was truth all the same. 

“You killed how many people, controlled how many,” Clint asks angrily, “and all you have to say in your defense is that you weren’t yourself? What, were you a little stressed? Had a headache?”

And Loki, tall, powerful, old as hell god that he is, _wilts_ beneath Clint’s wrath and the reminder of the deaths at his hand. He is breathing in that choked up way that preludes tears — or for Tony, sometimes, an anxiety attack — hands wringing together mindlessly behind him, and brows bunched together in a frown of abject wretchedness. 

And perhaps what Clint is saying holds water. Nothing excuses that kind of loss of life or taking away another’s free will. Tony had thought so often enough in the proceeding years, often in the same vein as resting the blame for his PTSD and nightmares about the void squarely on Loki’s shoulders. But Clint had not seen the terror, the blind panic and torment that Loki had displayed back in the tower. This Loki is a much different person than the original Loki. 

“No. My brother said he was not in his right mind,” Thor argues, and for a second, Tony doesn’t see his point, doesn’t see the reason for arbitrarily and pedantically debating semantics. But then he realizes that’s not what he’s doing at all, because Thor, who knew Loki as well as anyone had, would recognize the importance of exact phrasing from the god of subtlety and half truths. _His right mind._ Of course!

Clint, Steve, someone starts to object, to say something or other, but Tony isn’t paying attention, and talks right over them as he addresses the million dollar question. 

“The scepter! It’s not just for controlling others, is it?” he asks Loki, perhaps gentler than he might have, because yelling at the poor guy right now would feel like kicking someone’s dog. Around him, conversation freezes and everyone seems to listen for the answer. 

Loki jerks his face up, eyes, bright with shock and green as all get-out — decidedly not the blue tinge of the... how had he put it again? glow stick of destiny, or something like that — searching Tony’s face. _You believe me?_ is so easy to see, written so openly in the hope and trepidation mingled therein. Christ, what had happened to Loki since this had transpired initially that he was so... different, so unrecognizable, almost, or would be, if he wasn’t considered a threat to the planet, and if his face didn’t haunt Tony in particular far too often in his dreams. Although without the bared teeth and the redolence of lunacy, perhaps it is a different face entirely, now. 

“You’re not the same as you were before” he says, speaking as much to Loki as to everyone else, although only Loki would feel the full significance of that one word. “I mean... that wasn’t really you. Was it?”

“Tony, what are you saying?” 

Tony turns to Bruce. Of course, Bruce would be quick to grasp the situation, and of course he would be sympathetic to an issue of another’s influence in the mind. 

“What Tony Stark is saying is the truth. My brother has not acted this way or done something of this caliber before. I know Loki; this is not his behavior.” Thor says, evidently going for the brother of the year award, and winning, because anyone who sticks up for their dubiously stable and villainous sibling is a real ride or die. 

“Perhaps, or perhaps brotherly affection is clouding your judgement,” Steve chips in, which, maybe is a good point, Tony wouldn’t know, he’s an only child, but it’s not tremendously helpful, overall. 

Natasha raises a forestalling hand, more curious than anything. 

“Let the little guy speak for himself.”

_Little guy?_ That’s... unexpected, Tony thinks, but the thought is more than a small amount amusing. 

“The scepter is... tainted, I suppose is a way of putting it.” Loki begins, slowly picking his way through the words like they’re very hard for him to say. “The effect was not limited to those I chose to control, no. It influenced myself as well, I believe, twisting my thoughts and feelings into travesties of themselves: resentment into hatred, anger into a desire to... to inflict pain.” He looks at Thor pleadingly. “I never wanted a throne. You know this. And you are correct, Stark, this is not me, at least, not entirely. Bits and pieces, yes, undeniably. Like I said, there were enough of my own ugly emotions for it to find a foundation in, but I would never- I would not have done this otherwise.”

“Do you have a way to prove any of that?”

“I do not,” he says in a very small voice indeed. Like he knows he won’t be trusted or believed and is too tired to fight for it. 

“Then we have no choice but to take you back to S.H.I.E.L.D and lock you up where you cannot escape again,” Clint says with more heat and force than necessary, even if it is understandable. 

“No. Loki will return with me to Asgard.”

“No! I cannot, Thor. Take the Tesseract and the scepter. Give them to Fa- Odin. I believe he will know what to do with them, but I _cannot_ go back.” And that fear, that absolute certainty makes its return, and Tony realizes that there are higher stakes here than just some prodigal son family squabble Loki is trying to avoid. 

“Then prison it is,” Clint insists.  

“I don’t think we can just put him in jail after what he’s just told us. Insanity defense? This doesn’t constitute ‘beyond reasonable doubt,’” says Bruce. 

“Unless he’s lying,” Steve suggests, and Clint shuts his mouth like Cap had taken the words right out of it. 

“He’s not lying.” And it’s one thing Tony is absolutely sure of. 

All eyes turn to him, except those of the resident Asgardians, who seem to be having some silent conversation of their own. Or, not so silent, since Thor decides to speak just then.  

“What are you not saying, brother?”

For a second, Tony thinks Loki might actually try to run. He looks so torn, like he wants to tell Thor whatever it may be but he’s not quite sure he can. He chews on his lip in silent contemplation, but Thor, good ol’ Thor, looks like the very picture of trustworthiness, looks, for once, like he’s really ready to listen. It’s almost enough to have Tony second guess if Thor had traveled back in time as well. 

“If I go back to Asgard, I will die.” It is not speculation. There is too much finality for that. 

“Why would you say that? Mother and, and the Allfather would not harm you. They would want to know what happened, yes, and they might not be pleased with all that’s been done, but they will not turn you away. They will welcome you home, as will I.”

Loki looks away, because there’s only so much earnestness and overt love that one can take without breaking into pieces and it seems he’s reached his limit. 

“It is not them I’m worried about. If it were merely that, I would go with you. If you believe anything I say, believe that. But it is not safe for me there. There is another. The invasion was not- it was not my idea.” _‘Not exactly,’_ he had said. Not _his_ army. This is what he meant. “I was the figurehead, the mouthpiece. Or perhaps the... I believe you would say, the scapegoat.”

“Duress?” Tony offers when more does not seem forthcoming. 

“Were you threatened?” Thor asks almost at the same time. “Loki, I need you to tell me.”

Loki shuts his eyes, and after a long moment, nods. His hands, Tony sees, are pale and clenched and almost scratching each other, so fierce is his wringing. 

“Thanos,” he whispers. 

Thor is unable to prevent a sharp inhale, and he hefts his hammer almost subconsciously, as if preparing for an attack. Obviously it’s a name he recognizes. 

“The Mad Titan. Oh, Loki,” he says brokenly.  

Tony feels like he missed something, and the blank faces of the other Avengers indicate a similar sentiment all around. He has no idea who this Thanos guy is, other than that he sounds like a real asshole, but Thor is looking at Loki like he expects his brother to crumble to dust, and Loki doesn’t seem far off, trembling like a leaf in a stiff breeze, and there is some bigger picture, some entailment of this figure that Thor knows and Loki has... experienced. Threatened and... Tony follows that to its obvious conclusion, and he kind of wants to be sick. How good is a threat if the victim doesn’t _know_ that you’re going to carry it out? What kind of torture— and that’s what it is, Tony knows that’s what it is. He’s been down that road — would be enough to terrify a god? Surely beyond anything even the Hulk could do to him, and he’d seen the result of that. On second thought, he doesn’t want to know. 

“I think we can agree that this qualifies as extenuating circumstances,” says Steve, and no one protests, no one even suggests that he might be faking it, not even Clint, who has gone oddly quiet and is looking at Loki like he’s just now seeing him. And maybe there’s some empathy there too. It appears Clint got the drift. 

“Fury will still need to know. There’s still the mess to clean up, and we still have to do something with him. The public is not going to want a terrorist just roaming the streets. Until we can deal with the fallout, we need somewhere to contain him. If we can’t let his brother take him back home without endangering him, we might have no choice but to put him behind bars, at least temporarily,” Nat says, always the levelheaded pragmatist. 

“What about,” Tony says, thinking quickly and out loud, “Stark Tower? It’s safe, there’s plenty of room, and it’d be easy enough to keep out of the public eye, providing Oscar here doesn’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

“Are you certain it’s secure?”

Tony doesn’t dignify that with a response beyond an indignantly raised eyebrow. 

“Would that be okay with you, Loki?” Thor asks gently. 

Loki nods, not looking entirely thrilled at the prospect, but relieved all the same. Obviously he’s not a choosing beggar. 

“Great!” Tony says, imparting a lot of cheer in his voice to break up the somber mood. “Well, if we’re not going for shawarma, then I guess we should head back to the tower, get this guy settled in.” Tony claps Loki on the shoulder, in an overdone friendly way that Tony hopes Loki can translate, because he can’t think of another way to say ‘oh boy do we really need to talk’ without everyone else hearing. “You’re all welcome to stay for drinks, we can order food in, make yourselves at home and all that. Well?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Loki isn’t actually a kid, if any of you are worried about that. 
> 
> Thoughts so far? Also, feel free to point out any mistakes and offer feedback. Comments are always deeply appreciated!


	2. Reality Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow! Thank you to all the people who have read, commented, subscribed, bookmarked, and left kudos. I’m just blown away by the amount of support this fic has gotten so far. You guys are wonderful. Big hug!

On second thought, inviting Loki to stay in his tower indefinitely might not have been one of Tony’s best laid plans. Not that Tony is prone to laying plans like some kind of planmason. He’s more of an improvise as you go kind of guy, because that way, when things go awry, as they are wont to do, he and the mice can be spared the blame.

But this is undeniably the work of Tony’s mouth leaping before looking — metaphorically of course; mouths can do neither —as it is wont to do, and he has no way to account for what might become of that bright idea because none of it is even remotely predictable. Loki is, by his own admission, changeable, and certainly Tony would not have _predicted_ him being... like this even if he’d had multiple guesses. And that’s without counting the, uh, time travel. _Gotta say, didn’t see that one coming._  

And years had passed for Tony, and the Avengers he knew were not the same as they had been back in 2012, and as familiar as they are, Tony has forgotten the impermanence of one moment in time, has forgotten that they, while certainly less chaotic than the resident god of the subject matter, were similarly changeable, shaped by circumstance and dependent factors.  _Tony_ has changed. Time, too, was chang _ing_. Tony doesn’t know where everything — where _anything_ — falls in the balance.  

Loki could survive in a cell. Hell, he might even deserve to, in some ways. Tony isn’t fool enough to believe that innocence, true innocence, lies beneath that countenance of shame and anguish. And Tony remembers the first time. Would that he didn’t, but he does. Agent Coulson. That far off look Clint sometimes got, the one he’d try to shake away, the one that clung regardless. The bruises on his own neck that had taken weeks to fade. And he remembers Loki’s face, remembers it in stark relief, inches above his and snarling fury, vacant-eyed. But he can’t remember if there was some sign, some subtle anything that he had overlooked therein, and he should have noticed, should have realized sooner if _something_ was there. He’d seen his reflection often enough. He should have seen it then, too. But he’d missed it, or else it hadn’t been. But in this, Loki _is_ innocent. 

Because Tony, too, had known the urge to do whatever it took to fight and cling to your volition, to be backed into a corner and given no choices. _The bright lure of freedom._ Loki had condemned it then. But Tony understands that those words had not been his. _Mouthpiece_. _Mind control_. You couldn’t put someone in jail for being a victim. 

But the tower. The perfectly intact tower, with the windows still spanning the panes and all the letters still in their places. Still so shiny new, so conspicuously unlived-in. His home. That’s what it would be now. He can’t go back to Malibu, not after seeing it destroyed. It isn’t a mistake he’d make again, but the memory still remains. And now, for the foreseeable future, Loki’s home too. On the bright side, it does make it considerably easier to talk to the guy without having to do some major explaining. Tony isn’t looking forward to it, and it’s not the only conversation he’s dreading. 

After some discussion, and disagreement, they decide the best course of action for getting Loki to the tower without drawing the attention of just about everyone is, simply put, the path of least resistance. Loki can, in essence, teleport, although he hadn’t described it as such, and it seemed the type of thing to capitalize on. But it wouldn’t do to let him go on his own, even after what he’d confessed, with no failsafe to ensure that he wouldn’t just abscond to some undisclosed locale and leave them all duped and empty-handed. Not that Tony thinks he’d do that. He doesn’t think anyone actually does. But they can’t take that risk. Thor volunteers to go with him, but Tony decides to play up the fact that it’s _his_ tower, be a little anal about it. 

“Sorry, bud, but I have a policy against giving guests unsupervised access to my home and confidential stuff. It’s nothing personal, but that hasn’t worked out too well for me in the past.” He looks at Loki, who’s watching him like he’s known the whole while what Tony is going to say, and already mislikes it. Time to make a point. “Guess that leaves me on babysitting duty.” He flashes a grin, just to rub it in. He hands Thor the scepter. “Look after that for me.” To the Avengers, he says, “I’ll meet you there.” 

He sidles up to Loki. 

“Whenever you’re ready, hotshot.”

He’s halfway expecting Loki to stall, roll his eyes spitefully or make some clever little comment in retaliation for Tony’s needling. He doesn’t expect Loki to bare his teeth in a parody of a smile — because that is _not_ a smile, smiles are not supposed to be so creepy, Tony is sure — and wrap his arm around his shoulder, tugging him way, way too close to his chest, and damn if he isn’t _strong_ , and Tony bites back a startled yelp as his head fills with the scent of cold sweat and so much leather. 

“If you’re sure _you_ are ready,” Loki says, because he’s a smug bastard. “This won’t be fun.” 

It’s the only warning Tony gets before the world snaps to black like some eyelid has been clamped over his field of vision, and he swoops backwards, arms flailing for a handhold, stomach somewhere in the back of his throat, a wind that is not a wind surging around him. And then it is not black, but a haze of colors that Tony can’t identify, isn’t even sure he’s seen before, rushing past, making him dizzy, and he cranes his head to see Loki moving through the weird paste of reality as easily and unbothered as if he were walking through a meadow in a breeze. His hair twitches a bit, strands of it falling in his face, but he pays it no mind, seems merely purposeful and calm, and the split second the whole thing takes is enough to leave Tony anything but. 

He gasps, able to breathe again, as they come to a stop in front of _that_ window. Loki doesn’t let go of him immediately, which is possibly a good thing, because it takes a moment for him to trust his feet again and fight back the need to retch. 

“You’re right,” he says when he’s sure he’s not gonna experience the whisky he’d technically drunk that day in reverse, “that wasn’t fun.”

Tony releases the fistfuls of leather he’s suddenly aware he’d been holding, and they both take a step back. 

“Not for you, no,” Loki agrees mildly. Tony might have kicked him in the shin if he wouldn’t have broken his toes doing so. It certainly doesn’t help that the god is fresh as a daisy and almost bored, like that wasn’t absolutely fucking wild and, if you disregard the physical detriment, _cool._  

“Glad one of us is enjoying this,” Tony mutters as he wipes his damp hands on his pants. There’s still that bottle of Scotch on the counter, and he’s tempted to drink some. If nothing else, it’d get rid of the sudden dryness of his mouth. 

Loki does roll his eyes at that, and Tony hopes _he’s_ not in a shin-kicking mood. He’s probably not. He’s gone quiet. _Right. Not a whole lot to enjoy all around._

“So...” Tony starts, not feeling up to his usual levels of confidence and impetuosity. “Any idea what could have caused this, if you and I didn’t?”

“No,” Loki snaps. “If I did I might have mentioned it sooner.” 

Tony puts up his hands. 

“Easy, tiger. I meant theoretically, not, like, something personal. Because I’m not sure what the deal is with you Asgardians, but here on _Midgard_ , time travel is supposed to be fucking impossible, it’s science fiction. It’s Back to the Future and, and Doctor Who bullshit. No one’s ever actually done it. Holy _shit,_ ” he whispers to himself, a hysterical little giggle coming out. “Time travel. I’m the first fucking time traveler. Oh _god_.” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, hard. 

He does go for the Scotch then, picking up his used glass and gulping a sip. And because he’s a good host, even if an ill-prepared one, and because Loki had seemed to appreciate it earlier, he refills his glass as well, and slides it to the end of the counter. 

It is hard to believe. On one hand, this is groundbreaking, and absolutely the type of thing that would ordinarily make Tony wet himself. On the other, randomly being pulled backward through existence to relive one of the worst days of his life — although, so far, it hadn’t been nearly as bad this time. Small mercies — was _not_ ordinary, and _was_ some complete bullshit that Tony would be angry about if it wasn’t just the exact thing that would happen to him. Of course it would. Because there was no other bastard on the planet with such perpetually bad luck that this sort of thing was damn near predictable. Tony should have seen it coming, honestly. Fool me twice and all that. This was more than twice. Probably, Tony still hasn’t used up his karma quota for a lifetime of bad choices. That, or Fate just likes finding new and creative ways to hit him with a stick. 

“That would depend on how you define time travel.” Loki’s voice is quiet. Not tentatively so, but more like he just doesn’t need or care to shout. So unlike Thor. How they ended up so opposite in some things despite being raised together is really a point for nature in the nature vs nurture argument. 

Tony turns to him sharply. 

“You know, transport through time, to the past or the future?” The sarcastic lilt probably doesn’t do much to mask his newfound interest. “Is there... more than one definition?” 

Loki nods, and takes a moment to organize his thoughts, brows studiously drawn together. If he’s noticed he has another drink ready, he’s given no sign. 

“When I brought you here, I did so instantaneously, with no time passing from one point to the next. And yet, while we were walking through Yggdrasil,” — _Whatever that means_ — “time did pass, did it not? Not much, a mere second at most, but it was not nothing, not wholly insignificant.” He does look at Tony then, to see what he’s made of this paradox. “Time cannot both pass and not pass.”

“So, you’re not just cutting corners when you do that whole... whatever the hell that was? You’re, what,  traveling back in time as you go, so it gives the illusion of no time passing when you arrive? How do you even know no time has passed? Or is it just a matter of general relativity? You know, time dilation?” he adds at Loki’s uncomprehending expression. “Like, like how time is inconsistent, and more of a perception than an absolute. It’s relative to the speed at which one is moving? But there’s no way you were going even close to the speed of light. You’d have to be going much faster than you were for it to even be observable, let alone a full second or two. Unless... unless that reality soup was somehow _less_ massive than the Earth, and time just... feels slower here than it does there.” And wasn’t that a mouthful. 

Loki looks like he’s trying to mentally separate the genuine questions from Tony’s musing rambles — which, to be fair, isn’t really an easy task — and process all the information at the same time. Tony gives him a wry smile. 

“You’ve never studied Einstein’s theories. Does Asgard have anything in the way of theoretical physics?”

“If there is a such thing, it’s called something different.” Loki tips his head, considering. “Asgardians tend to believe that conjecture and hypothetical pursuits are... something of a waste of time, in my experience. Maybe they used to be more common practice, long ago, but somewhere along the line, they seemed to decide that there was no need for such things, since everything they needed had already been studied and perfected, and there aren’t many problems that cannot be solved through simpler means.” _Magic,_ Tony would guess, _or brute force._ Depends on the issue. “There is more than one reason it is referred to as the Realm Eternal. Why understand how things work when it’s not required in order to manipulate them to suit their purposes?” he asks rhetorically. 

Why indeed. But there’s something else he said that has Tony curious. 

“‘They?’ You make it sound like you aren’t also Asgardian.” 

Loki snatches up the glass, takes a sip, and curls his lip like he’s found the drink to be quite bitter. 

“I’m not.”

“What do you m-?” he starts to ask, but cuts himself off at how uncomfortable Loki looks, face back to it’s guarded neutrality, but his fingers curling tellingly at his side. “Oh. I guess you’re _really_ adopted then. But you look so much like Thor,” he says, and then realizes immediately that that isn't precisely true. He looks like the same species, at least, but it wasn’t like they were in danger of being mistaken for twins. 

“I certainly do not!” And now Loki is looking at him like he’s stupid, and he’s seriously affronted. Tony isn’t sure why, it’s not like Thor is bad looking dude by any stretch of the imagination. But dealing with a pissy Loki isn’t really something Tony’s been dying to experience, so he falls back on familiar territory.  

“Of course not, you have much prettier eyes.” Loki actually gapes, like he just plain doesn’t know what to say to that. Tony grins at him. 

“I- what?” 

“Seriously? No one’s mentioned that before in- how old are you? A few thousand years?”

Loki doesn’t answer. He just shuts his mouth and turns to stare out at the street below. 

“What was the last thing you were doing?” Tony asks, to change the topic to something less... stressful? Obviously Loki’s family ties, or _un_ ties, are a sore subject. “I mean, before you got back, back to where you once belonged, Jojo.”

“Dying,” he says to the window pane. 

“I... really? Like actually _dying_ dying?” 

“Yes.” His voice is stiff through his clenched teeth. 

Huh. So he hadn’t weaseled out of it, after all. Tony himself had been sleeping, as far as he knew, still quite alive. He watches the almost imperceptible rise and fall of Loki’s shoulders as he breathes, the tension apparent all up his spine. Scratch what he had thought earlier. There were at least two unlucky bastards on the planet now. 

“Wait a minute!” Tony exclaims, and Loki whirls around at him with such ferocity that Tony takes a step back despite having a counter between him and the god, and Tony realizes that he had sounded far more accusatory than he had intended when Loki opens his mouth, clearly about to tell Tony off in an unprecedentedly offended manner. “No, my bad,” Tony backpedals, “I mean, I’m sorry to hear that, that must have been, uh, one hell of a rough day, believe me, I’ve been close enough too often, I get it. I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I do. In fact that’s exactly my point. In the original timeline, my timeline, that is, I suppose, Thor told me about your death. It was on that planet, that dark, empty planet, with the, the elves-“

“Svartalfheim,” Loki supplies, a bit pale in the face. 

“Yes. Exactly. Thor told me about it months ago, though, which means that you’ve been dead in my timeline for a while, and the respective points that we returned here from are different.”

Loki gives that a moment’s consideration before asking, “Does that mean something? I’m failing to see how that makes any difference, but if you’ve got some explanation, I’ll hear it.” 

Tony sighs and drags a hand over his hair. 

“I have no idea. It might be important, or it might just be pure coincidence. But we have no way of knowing what information is relevant to this whole scenario, do we?”

Loki lifts his whisky and tips it in Tony’s direction like a toast, silently agreeing that they’ve both pretty well been left high and dry by whoever is calling the fucking shots and they both take a sip. 

“Speaking of Thor, is it just me, or does he seem... changed?” Tony asks carefully, not wanting to step on another Loki landmine. 

“He... responded differently now to a separate set of circumstances than there was before.” 

Which, true, isn’t exactly conducive to finding out if he’d have always reacted that way to Loki’s truth, or if he’d been given some new perspective on things. But still. Who knew Thor better than his brother?

“Is there any chance that he’s-“

“No.” Loki shuts that line of questioning down before it can even gain traction, nearly harsh in his resoluteness. But then his voice softens to something almost wistful, and it’s enough to make Tony wish he hadn’t asked when he sees the subtle tightening around the god’s eyes. “No, that is not _my_ Thor.”

“Sir, your guests are in the elevator on the way up and will be arriving in approximately 43 seconds,” JARVIS informs him, with impeccable timing as always. Tony’s put his foot in his mouth like six times since this conversation started, and he doesn’t really want to find out what would happen if he kept pushing Loki’s buttons. 

“Took them long enough,” he says in an undertone. Out loud, to his AI he says, “Thanks Jarv.”

And he means it. The heads up is his cue to put a lid on that line of conversation, at least until he can determine if anyone else is doing a do over. 

The almost minute before the Avengers’ elevator dings to a stop on their floor is awkward, and Tony really isn’t sure what to say, because he _should_ apologize, probably, that would be the socially polite thing to do. But doing so would be tantamount to calling Loki weak to his face, or he’d see it that way, and if the careful retreat into even breathing and an illusion of placidity is anything to go by, Loki is as allergic to being vulnerable as Tony himself. Suffice to say, he can’t see it going over well. 

“Nice view,” Tony says just to fill the silence, about the window Loki is once more staring down from. Then he winces, because last time, the view was anything but. He hadn’t meant it as a reminder. 

The elevator doors open and they both turn toward the sound and the ensuing ensemble. 

“What about a view?” Clint asks, chipper tone coating his caginess. 

“Oh, I was just trying to convince Starfire that his eyes are, in fact, quite lovely,” Tony says easily, and aren’t lies so much smoother on the tongue when they’re served with a mixer of truth. “Thor, tell your brother he has pretty eyes.”

Thor, who looks completely out of place for being caught in the middle of Tony’s flirting and Loki’s palpable exasperation, glances between the two of them. 

“Yes, of course he does,” he says, sounding like he was asked if the sky is blue or if fish swim.  

Loki huffs and crosses his arms, pointedly not meeting any of their gazes. Probably he’d have squeezed his eyes shut like some petulant child to keep anyone from looking, if that wouldn’t make him seem, well, petulant and childish. Tony winks his way, hoping he’ll see it regardless. 

“Tony, you need to stop trying to hit on anything with two legs and long hair,” Natasha, no, it’s Agent Romanoff now, if that’s how she wants to be, says with mild chastisement and moderate amusement.  

“What makes you think it was the hair that did it?” Tony asks, even though it was a startling assessment of Tony’s priorities, but there’s no way Natasha would know that he does, actually, think Loki’s hair is kind of hot. Or would be if it were a little less messy. _Or messier..._   

At roughly the same time, Loki decides to open his mouth, apparently one for revenge served fresh and fast.  

“I’m not sure two legs are even a requirement, Agent Romanoff.” And isn’t that nice, the perfectly inflected sympathy and, and _resignation,_ like they’ve found some sort of solidarity over Tony’s hopeless coquettishness. _What a fucking brat._ And then he looks at Tony and _he_ winks, and okay, maybe Tony did deserve that. 

“I think you mentioned food?” Steve cuts in, probably feeling a bit uncomfortable with whatever the hell this box Tony had just opened was. He and Pandora both needed to learn not to mess with things. _But why ruin the habit of a lifetime?_

“Yeah, Jarv, let’s get you on that,” he says, sort of toward the ceiling. “What are we feeling for lunch?” he directs to the room. “Pizza, sandwiches, sushi, curry? Salad? Work with me here. There’s an Italian place that has really good spaghetti aglio e olio, if you guys like pasta.”

“Pasta sounds good,” says Bruce, probably in part to forestall Tony from listing every food under the sun.

Everyone sort of nods along in that unfamiliar but polite way that people do when they don’t really have a preference one way or the other. 

“JARVIS, _Il Piacere,_ take out, get a variety, and plenty of it. And some garlic bread. Everyone likes garlic bread, right?”

“Right away, Sir,” JARVIS intones pleasantly. He’s sneaky like that, on his best behavior when there’s company around. It makes Tony feel a bit proud. 

 

*

 

Loki, it turns out, does not like garlic bread. Tony watches him take a bite, make a face, and surreptitiously push the piece to the side of his plate to not eat later. Tony’s not entirely sure what the deal is with that, because he’s fairly certain the capellini with pesto he’s been inhaling has more garlic per bite than the whole loaf of bread does, so it’s obviously something else.  

_Everyone_ except Loki _likes garlic bread,_  he mentally amends.  

A quiet mood seems to have fallen over the group, and they all concentrate mostly on eating their various dishes rather than talking, although a few stray comments are exchanged here and there. But they’re avoiding the big-ticket questions, and they know they are, and in the long stretches of silence, Tony imagines he can hear a dull hum coming from the scepter from the corner Thor had propped it in. Clint also gives it a wary look from time to time. 

When they’ve finished eating, and Thor is not so discreetly eyeing Loki’s uneaten garlic bread — clearly _he_ has good taste — Natasha says she’s going to head out. 

“I have to give a report to Fury, and its best if I do that sooner than later.”

“You can’t just call?”

“When the walls have ears? And their own personality,” she adds, with a glance at one of JARVIS’ cameras. “It’s not such a great idea.”

Tony sighs.  

“You never did trust me much, did you, Romanoff?” And he’s too tired to be truly bitter, but at least, in the before-time, she and he had managed some rapport. Now it’s back to coolness and not quite indifference but not camaraderie either. 

Natasha gives him a long look, but doesn’t offer a  reply. 

_She’s not..._ But couldn’t she be? She wouldn’t have said anything if she didn’t think Tony was back as well, and it was impossible to tell what was going through her head at any given time, but especially when she had cause for secrecy. _But does she?_

Clint stands as well, makes his way to her side as they make their way to the elevator in the other room. 

“Great. You too, Barton?” Tony calls after him. “Would anyone else like to take their leave, or are you staying? Bruce? Cap? Thor? I can set you up with your own rooms, your own floors, actually, if you’re planning on spending the night.”

“I’ll bite,” Steve says although he seems more like he’s appeasing Tony than anything. Or trying to piss him off. 

“I’ll stay, if you’re offering,” Bruce confirms, and Tony grins at him. He always did like the other smart guy on the team. 

Thor, however, frowns.  

“Are you not giving Loki his own room and floor as well?” he asks, and there’s an undercurrent there that makes Tony feel just the slightest bit offended. Thor is just being overprotective, he knows, but he doesn’t like the unspoken supposition that he’d mistreat Loki, or put him in a cell regardless of their earlier discussion, or whatever it is Thor’s half afraid he’ll do. 

But that does raise another point, Tony realizes. His plan was to give Loki a room close to his own, for strategical purposes. It wouldn’t do to have to traipse around the tower all suspicious and unexplainable every time he or Loki had to discuss... this whole mess confidentially. That wouldn’t be helpful in building any sort of trust with the rest of the team, and they’d probably just think that Loki had been lying the whole time and had somehow gotten to Tony too. But they do _have_ to discuss it, since there’s no one else to go to, to their knowledge, and that can’t be taken off the table. And, he wouldn’t deny that keeping Loki close would allow him to keep an eye on him. He wasn’t stupid or blindly trusting. 

A glance at Loki reveals that the god is also looking at him, and Tony would guess that he’d been thinking much on the same track. But when their eyes meet, with the same deer-in-the-headlights undercurrent of _what do we do?_ it feels far, far too conspiratorial for Tony’s liking. 

Then Loki peels his eyes away and grins at Thor like a wolf. 

“What makes you think I need my own room?” he says roguishly, and flicks his eyes to Tony again and _oh_. Oh. Yes. _Clever, Loki._ Tony doesn’t mind this game at all. 

“King-size mattress has its perks,” he replies easily, with just a peppering of suggestiveness, and he lets his eyes slide along Loki’s form. He doesn’t even have to feign appreciation at the view, which helps. 

“ _King,_ you say?” Loki asks, making a pleased humming noise as he turns to him and rests his arm on the back of his chair. Tony waggles his eyebrows. 

“Well, he _does_ have two legs,” Bruce whispers to Steve, who just nods without a sound. 

Thor is still frowning, though. He must suspect something is up, which is quite shrewd of him, really, not that he was ever as oblivious as he allowed people to believe. Or maybe he just doesn’t think Tony is Loki’s type. But he doesn’t push at it, just gives Loki another searching look and changes the topic. 

“You said Odin would know what to do with the scepter and Tesseract?” 

Loki nods and pulls away from Tony, who appreciates the sudden return of personal space as much as he had the charade.

“Yes. I believe he will recognize them for what they are.” He meets Thor’s gaze steadily, and Thor’s brow furrows. 

“For what they are? What does that mean, what are they?” Bruce asks, and, really, it was what everyone was wondering. 

Loki chews his lip, obviously reluctant to give away too much information, or else he wouldn’t be speaking as vaguely as possible. It’s clear full disclosure isn’t his forte, and it’s no wonder, because this is _Loki_. 

“They’re objects of... significant power.” _A downplay_. “I have my suspicions. Odin will know if such is the case, even if it would seem like a made up story,” he says carefully. 

Thor seems to understand, seems to know exactly what Loki means, and really, it must be nice to not be in the dark. Or maybe not, because he’s gone all tense and actually looks anxious. 

“You think they’re...” 

“I do,” Loki says quietly. 

“Hang on,” Steve interjects. “Okay, so the two of you speak in code, whatever, but you’ve got two powerful objects that you’re going to take from Earth to your own planet?”

“Believe me when I say Earth will be better off for their loss. They are not the type of thing you want to be messing with.”

“But if there are hostile aliens who want to harm our planet — no offense — then we could use all the power we can get.” Bruce reasons. “What do they even do?” 

“You’ve seen what they do!” Loki cries, with a very specific type of desperation, a plea to be listened to. “Dr. Selvig, your Agent Barton, the others.” _Loki himself._ “They’re not going to stay on Asgard either.” He turns to Thor. “Make sure they don’t. If Fa- Father doesn’t know how to destroy them, get rid of them. Don’t let him be tempted. It’s not safe. He _will_ find them.” 

Ah. That Thanos fucker. Must have some sort of GPS on the scepter, at least, maybe on both. Evidently, Thanos finding Asgard is the last thing Loki wants to happen. 

Thor nods seriously, and the rest of them have nothing to say in the wake of Loki’s outburst. 

“Tony,” Thor addresses him, to his surprise, troubled and compassionate gaze still resting on Loki. “Would you mind if I speak to my brother in private? I mean you no discourtesy, but I fear this is a matter of great importance.”

“Sure, go ahead, buddy,” Tony says, tone reflecting the subdued atmosphere. “JARVIS will still be listening, he always is, just in case, but he won’t record it. Have him show you to your floor, you can take as long as you need. Actually,” he says to Steve and Bruce as he stands up, “why don’t you two get settled in as well. I’ve got a phone call I need to make, and I might be occupied for a while. Ask Jarv if you need anything.”

And they all make their way to their respective floors, and Tony to the penthouse, whelming dread welling up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I’ll start writing chapters from Loki’s pov, I promise, but Tony is just so fun to work with and I’ve been getting a real kick writing him. 
> 
> For the record, I’m sort of just hoping all the spacetime Einstein stuff makes sense, but all you genuinely smart people can tell me if I’ve got something wrong. 
> 
> Also, any guesses why Loki found the garlic bread objectionable? It has no relevance to the plot, or much of anything else, I just want to see what you guys come up with. 
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are adored, and if something is amiss, don’t hesitate to let me know! <3


	3. How to Handle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not mean to leave this as long as I did, so hopefully next update won’t be so long between. Thank you for all the patience in the meantime, and all the garlic bread comments! So many interesting theories, so much that made me laugh. 
> 
> And here, as promised, contains some Loki pov (and, consequently, quite a bit of angst)

The numerous windows of the penthouse let in light that feels far too cheery for the rather bleak and somber task at hand. Tony stands in it, blinking, for a second, distracted by the brightness as a means of stalling. JARVIS shutters the blinds, though, and the rooms falls into a more sedate dimness. Tony picks his way to the bedroom, sits on the edge of the mattress that some form of him had slept in just the night before, all those years ago. It smells like him. It’s a weird thing to notice, but maybe if he focuses on that, he can ignore the fact that it smells like Pepper too.   

 

The traces of her in the room are as subtle as they are obvious, the neatly made comforter and the smoothed out silk sheets, the plush lavender slippers she had been fond of tucked half under the bed frame on her side, embedded with the shape of her feet from use, the long strand of soft orange hair that Tony finds clinging to his pillowcase. 

 

He picks it up and runs it through his fingers, the sharp ache of nostalgia tempered by the inevitability of their dissolution. It hadn’t been built to last. Tony realizes as much now, and it’s not enough to diminish the vestiges of pain in the memories, but it helps. Even now, when he is not the right version of himself to be here, isn’t the man that Ms Potts thinks she loves, he’ll be the catalyst of the collapse. This time though, it’ll be because he is doing the right thing, because he cannot just sit back and pretend to be someone long forgotten, can’t lie to her or himself, even if some stubborn, desperate part of him still clutches at the belief that he needs her, that she’s intrinsic to his survival as much as the stupid fucking device in his chest keeping his heart from being impaled. There had been a time when that would have hurt less than letting his Pepper go. But this is not his Pepper, and he can manage to work up enough courage to make one phone call. Probably. 

 

“JARVIS, buddy?” His mouth tastes stale with the dryness of it, his words unsteady enough that he’d have been embarrassed had anyone heard but his AI. “D’you mind calling Pepper for me?”

 

The line only rings twice before Pepper is speaking, a hurricane in her voice of anxious concern and relief, and it’s too much, too soon, and Tony can’t do it, can’t press on as much as he can’t go back, and he feels like a tree bending beneath the weight of it. It had been so long since he’d last heard that tone directed at him, that fire and sweetness that was what made him love her in the first place. Much fresher were the tears, the frustration, the bland sort of acceptance. Tony wraps the hair around and around his little finger, a thin red-gold band, as he listens. 

 

“Tony! What happened? Is everything okay, are you alright? What’s going on?”

 

“Hey, Pep,” he says, quietly, voice hardly more than a breath pulled out of him. He’s so tired. He doesn’t want to do this. She hears it too. 

 

“What’s wrong? Tony, what’s the matter?”

 

He laughs, a sad little thing that does nothing to ease her worry, he is sure, but he can’t help it. It’s a habit he hasn’t been able to cure himself of, the urge to laugh when things are so, so far from funny. But laughing is easier than crying, and he really doesn’t want to cry right now. 

 

“I think you should come back to the tower.”

 

“Tony, what is it?” she pleads, “Talk to me! Are you hurt, are you-“

 

“I’m fine, Pep,” he says, and swallows back the truth. “Everything is fine. Nothing happened, actually. It’s a long story. Well, not that long, really, but Loki’s on our side now and we’re all safe.”

 

“What? What did-“

 

“Relax, we’ll fill you in on the details later, but right now I really need to talk to you.”

 

“Then talk to me, Tony. I’m listening.” And oh. The sudden softness of her voice stings worse than the salty wetness in his eyes. 

 

“I know. But this isn’t the type of thing you say over the phone. This is a face to face type of talk.” The silence on the other end is even more painful, and Tony presses the heels of his hands so hard into his closed eyes to keep the guilt from overwhelming him. “Please, Pepper.”

 

“Tony.” So resigned and yet so steady. She knows. She has to know. She always was good at picking up such subtle cues, the unspoken undertones in other people, in Tony. “Are you breaking up with me?”

 

“Got it in one, Sergeant,” he says. “I think we’re both joining the Lonely Hearts Club right about now.” Her laugh is not a happy sound. 

 

“Alright,” she says. It’s final. She’s not fighting. She’s steel beneath the surface, unyielding and steady, and it’s a relief, truly. She’ll be okay. Tony is sure of it. But she’s not fighting, and that hurts too. 

 

For one, fierce moment, Tony thinks about telling her everything, the inexplicable time travel, the real reason the invasion never happened, what had gone wrong between them that first time both long ago and still to come. But before he can let his open mouth decide for him, she’s speaking again. 

 

“I’ll be by to pick up my stuff. We’ll talk more then, alright?”

 

Tony presses his lips together, nodding even though she can’t see. 

 

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.” It’s not. But there’s nothing for it, nothing to be done besides exactly this. She doesn’t call him on it though, because she must realize that he wouldn’t have done this without reason. 

 

The call ends, and he waits. He sits, surrounded by comfort, by ostentatious luxury of the highest caliber, on a bed so soft, on sheets even softer, leg bouncing a restless cadence and shaking the whole frame. His head is still in his hands, nails tugging on the hair at his temples, and he feels like the shittiest person on earth. Somehow, he thinks, as devastating as it had been to him, it was easier when Pepper had been the one to call it off. At least he knew how to handle his own broken heart. 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

The elevator is small and stifling in the immense silence looming over Loki, Thor’s presence beside him a constant reminder of the heaviness of what has to follow, what he has to say. It feels too big for the tiny metal room. It hadn’t felt quite so real before, when it was just Stark and his jokes, his wry wit and his impudent sort of boldness, Stark who is still exactly the same as Loki remembers. Thor is not the same. As for Loki... he hardly remembers who he had been all that time ago. 

 

Oh, he remembers what his life had been, and he wishes he did not, remembers every detail of his invasion of the very realm he stands on, of all that came before, the pain, the tendrils of the scepter and the Other digging into his mind like mistletoe chokes even the mightiest of oaks, withering his already tenuous sanity, until all that was left was rage and madness catching like fire. In the end, he had knelt. In the end, the blood on his hands is what he remembers clearest. 

 

But Loki himself had been vacant, a piece on a game board moved by a volition not of his own making. A thing, and not a person. A monster. Always that. Who he had been, or would have liked to, had not mattered. A desire for vengeance, an indomitable blood-urge, and a rippling undercurrent of fear did not an identity make. 

 

And so much had changed in the time since. He’d gotten his brother back just to lose him all over again, and looking at Thor now is nearly too much, because he is still Thor, as he had been, but this is not the same brother he had reconciled with, and Loki isn’t sure he’ll ever see that Thor again. It’s like the man beside him is foreign to him, and there’s a thickness in his throat that he can’t swallow down. 

 

He isn’t sure if it’s better or worse that _this_ Thor seems to _want_ to trust him. Before, Thor hadn’t been interested in listening either to what Loki did say, or that which he could not bring himself to speak of. He can still feel the phantom traces of the gag over his mouth. He licks his lips. Before, when he’d wanted nothing more than for things to be okay between them, needed so badly for his brother and once closest friend to not turn him away, to forgive him, he had not been able to ask, and he’d been left abandoned and alone and Thor had not even tried to plead his cause. He should have known that something was not right, very, _very_ not right, but he hadn’t. But _this_ Thor had taken Loki into his arms in immediate forgiveness, had very nearly cried for him, and Loki could not deny even to himself that it was the exact thing he had wanted so very badly. Yet this is not his brother, and the brief moment of security he had felt had fled in the face of it, because it was as meaningless as the embrace of a stranger. 

 

There’s a little chiming sound, and the doors open to an empty room that might have been a parlor of sorts, with long, low couches upholstered in black leather and windows spanning the whole wall opposite, floor to ceiling, letting afternoon sunlight spill over panels of wood and thick, patterned rugs. It looks comfortable, with polished wooden tables and shelves and a few feathery green plants in pots tucked in corners, but it has an open, exposed feeling that Loki likes about as much as the confines of the elevator. 

 

“To your left, if you please,” says the clever little voice from the ceiling, the one Stark had called JARVIS. 

 

Thor eyes him, a frown on his face that might be worry, or perhaps dismay. Indeed, this will not be an easy thing to discuss. None of it will. They follow the directions of JARVIS, who leads them down a corridor and into what will presumably be Thor’s chambers henceforth, with another little sitting area and adjacent doors that lead to a bedroom and a balcony, respectively. 

 

Thor perches on the edge of an overstuffed armchair and fidgets with Mjölnir’s handle before setting the hammer down on the floor between his feet. 

 

Loki remains standing, arms crossed firmly over his chest to keep from wringing his hands together, or running his sweat damp palms over his pant legs. He sucks his lips inward, not sure where to start. He wants to pace about the room, wants to busy himself with some insignificant task, wants to stall. He’s not used to feeling nervous, not around Thor. 

 

Thor clears his throat, opens his mouth, but Loki is faster. 

 

“I am not your brother,” he blurts out, and it’s not what he’d intended to say. He tries to ignore the way Thor flinches, hurt clearly in his face. He looks away. 

 

“Loki,” he starts, so earnest, so sincere, because he doesn’t even know. “Just because you and I do not share blood does not mean-“ 

 

“It is not that,” Loki whispers. His fingers drum over his leather sleeves, a restless patter drowned out by the pain in his voice that he cannot conceal. 

 

Thor leans forward in his seat, creaking leather and shifting the whole frame of the chair. He tries again. 

 

“It matters not to me if you are not Aesir, being a Jotun is-“ 

 

“It is not that either,” Loki says, a bit louder, and makes himself meet the guileless blue of Thor’s confused, wounded eyes. “Whoever you think I am,” his lips twitch into a thin, wretched smile, inwardly deprecating, “I am not him.”

 

Thor stares back, unblinking. Unwavering. 

 

“You are Loki,” he says, as if that is all that matters. 

 

Loki looks away. 

 

“I am,” he says, turning to ostensibly gaze at the bookshelf beside the hearth. He steps closer, trails his fingers over the spines without reading the titles.  “But the man who stands before you today is a long way from the brother who once fought you on the rainbow bridge. And you are not the same version of Thor that I had known when I last parted ways with him.” He glances back at Thor. “I’m afraid we no longer recognize one another.” The words are dispassionate as much as Loki can make them. And they are not lies. No, they have the cold taste of truth in his mouth, no matter how he has to fight for them to pass his teeth. 

 

Thor is quiet for a long moment, frowning at his empty hands and trying to piece together what he has been told, while Loki pretends he isn’t watching him closely as he traces a path toward the hearth on silent feet, staring at the hollow where flames would be when the weather was cold enough to merit such, or perhaps for the simple comfort of it. It is dormant now, however, without even ashes in that space. 

 

“How do you suppose I know about the stones?” Loki says softly, turning toward Thor when it seems he will not speak. 

 

“You have lived it already,” Thor says immediately, blinking like he’s trying to clear his eyes, or maybe his thoughts. 

 

“Yes,” he confirms. It was not meant to be a riddle. For all that Thor had never been a true match for Loki in the precise craft of words — a strength of his brandished like the Captain’s shield, honed sharp as any blade — he is not stupid. Foolish, yes, and oftentimes blinded by things less than rational, but not stupid. “As I said before: I have had ample time to think some things through.”

 

Thor gazes at him searchingly, tucking a bit of golden hair behind his ear as his mind works, as if trying to figure out something else entirely. But when he next speaks, it is merely to ask, sounding as weary as Loki feels, “How long?” 

 

“I would say it does not matter, but perhaps it does.” He spreads his hands, a helpless shrug. “I know not. But I do doubt the wisdom of revealing too much at this time.” Even though so much had changed already, so much shaken off course that it was impossible to know in which direction the strings would be pulled this time, and what ultimate conclusion would befall them from what has already divided and what further harm or help could be had by a well-timed word, or an ill-timed one. “I am not the Norns to impel fate so readily.” Thor nods, unhappy but understanding, and Loki’s voice softens just a little. “Long enough, Thor. Too long, possibly.”

 

Thor chews on that, and then his eyes narrow, lips set in a line in that way they do when he’s figured something out. 

 

“And you... you’ve come to deliver a warning?”

 

“Oh no.” Loki grins, sharp little thing that it is goaded into existence by the bafflement written all over Thor’s face. So sure he had been in his guess, and a good guess it had been, but Loki does so enjoy watching Thor misstep when he is trying so hard. No matter that he, too, is baffled by this whole ordeal, he can at least make the attempt to disguise it. “I’ve not come at all. Sent, maybe, but for what purpose?” He shrugs again. “Though while I’m here, I might as well urge caution where it is due.”

 

“Do you know who it was that sent you?” 

 

Ah. And there it is. Proof that he is learning the rules of this, whatever this game may be. Yet again Loki is some token to be played with by unseen hands, but at least in this they both know that they have to pick their way forward with care. 

 

“I do not. All I know is that one moment, I was... otherwise occupied.” His hand twitches, and he has to resist the urge to reach up and soothe a hurt that no longer exists, nothing so much as a bruise on his current skin — attenuated and sallow as it may be, it is unmarred — to show for all the pain of dying. The shiver is harder to fight, and he doesn’t manage to keep a slight hitch out of his breath. He knows Thor hears it, the only betrayal of what sort of thing he was occupied with, how awful it had been. “And the next, I was once more in this tower with the mortal at the mercy of my hand and myself at the mercy of the scepter and those that bestowed it upon me.” 

 

Stark. He had been kind to fulfill that offer of a drink, and more besides. Not often does Loki feel the need to dull his senses and heavy his mind with alcohol, but if ever there was a time for that, this would be it.  He would not be opposed to another glass at this moment. 

 

And Thor is looking at him with those sad eyes once more, the ones that he doesn’t know how to handle. He never wants to see that look on Thor again, and the knowledge that he is wearing that look _for_ him and not because of him is an ache both sweet and fierce. He does not want pity, and the need to lash out is quelled only because it is not pity that has placed that expression on Thor’s face. He _does_ want compassion. 

 

“They hurt you.” 

 

“Of course they did.” Thor swallows audibly, misery at the thought growing into anger that has him reaching for Mjölnir despite the futility of it. One little hammer can do nothing about it now. “Do you want to know the exact words that were said to me? Before I made my arrival, as the mind stone was set upon me, and after all the lenity was bled from me like purulence from a lanced sore, when all I could taste was the acrid desire to see you bleed as well?” He’s not sure why he’s saying all this, why the words don’t seem to want to stop. Only that it’s easier somehow, talking to this Thor, who he cares not if he disappoints, or if he seems weak in front of. This is not the Thor that matters. “‘If you fail, he will make you long for something sweet as pain.’ Charming, is it not?” He laughs, and Thor blanches, because no matter how quaint the threat, he’d been made to fear the follow through. He had known pain. He had known nothing else. There was nothing sweet about it. “I failed, Thor.”

 

The silence that follows is thick as fog, settled around them like the breath of a cloud, still and tense. He lets his back face Thor once more, unable to watch as he takes in the entailment of that. 

 

“And you still chose to fail again,” says Thor, very much at a loss. And it, as it so often does, comes down to one question. “Why?”

 

Loki laughs again. 

 

“I do not fear pain nearly so much as I fear not being able to _choose,_ ” says he. “I have never done well with cages.” But this Thor wouldn’t know that quite so much. Might not ever. 

 

Loki sits then, because the slight shaking of his knees is something he can’t hide from Thor’s searching gaze, roving over him like all the answers he seeks are written there in ink. If only things were so simple. But wishing never solved anything, and nothing Loki has ever been or done could be considered simple. 

 

“Stark knows as well,” Loki says, just to see Thor’s head jerk up, incredulous. 

 

“You told him?” _Before you told me?_ he does not say with so many words, but there is petulance underlaid that is just as telling. Loki smirks. _This_ is much easier. 

 

“I didn’t have to. He is... like me. He remembers.”

 

And this seems to intrigue Thor, every bit as much as it did Loki, a thousand questions spiraling around his head like water in an upset bucket. 

 

“Why him?”

 

“Indeed. If he knows the answer to that, he wishes to keep it from me,” Loki says, amused. Truly, if the mortal man was so good a liar as that, it would nearly be impressive enough to forgive him for withholding that information. But as it rests at current, it is unlikely that Stark knows more than Loki himself, a scarce sum overall. The man is not one for discretion, not like Loki, for whom subtlety is his art. Not incapable of lying, Loki knows, nor unwilling, but one who would not bluff with his own life would not then go on to gamble with the lives of many more besides. 

 

“But you have spoken to him.”

 

Interesting, that note of jealousy. 

 

“Only enough to determine that he cannot tell me more than what I’ve already concluded,” he soothes, adding kindling to that spark. But Stark is important, at least to whoever had seen to it to reverse their paths to this moment in time, and Loki will not pretend otherwise. Still, there is no harm in feeling flattered. “There is less to tell with him, of course.”

 

“But he does not know about the stones.” It is not phrased as a question per se, but there’s uncertainty mingled therein. 

 

“I think not.”

 

Stark had not suggested the time stone as a means of reversing their trajectories. Might he have withheld knowledge of such from Loki while their alliance is yet green and tentative? Perhaps. Loki had not mentioned it either. But it is unlikely that he alone would know of the stones existence, while the likes of Banner or Rogers remained unaware. If he had known it to be a possibility, he would at least have considered such, and Loki had seen no evidence of that. 

 

“But I will have to tell him. He would figure it out soon enough on his own, but if he is to be an... accomplice, it’s for the best to keep him enlightened, at least as far as he can be. Even he I cannot tell everything to.”

 

“Do you trust him?” 

 

“Do you not? He is _your_ shield brother. Tell me, should I be wary of revealing too much to him? Must I watch my back?” Loki raises an eyebrow, innocent expression belied by the sardonic way the words curl from his tongue. 

 

Thor rolls his eyes. 

 

“You need not fear betrayal from Tony Stark,” he concedes, leaning back in his chair and resting an elbow on the arm of it. “But his impulsivity could lead to any number of outcomes, favored for good or ill.”

 

“Well,” Loki murmurs, lips forming a crooked smile, “the Midgardians might have the right of it when they say there is nothing new under the sun.”

 

Whether Thor realizes he’s been insulted or not, Loki cannot tell. He merely waits for Loki to answer his question at last. 

 

“Stark has reason enough to cooperate, I’m sure,” he says lightly, a touch knowingly, and then he catches Thor’s glower. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I have not threatened him. Why would I need to? If there truly is a purpose in this, he knows it as well.” 

 

Thor shifts again, the metal of his armor clinking softly. He crooks a grin at Loki. 

 

“And what part of this purpose includes your little dalliance?” he teases, eyes glinting with mirth. 

 

Loki snorts inelegantly, twisting his fingers together to keep them from touching the sudden slight warmth in his face. He _knows_ Thor means to rile him up, to watch him stammer and sweat, which doesn’t exactly keep it from working as he’d planned. He licks his lips, and then settles further into his own seat. 

 

“It is no business of yours who I choose to spend my time with,” he says crisply, aloof. And really, it isn’t, and Thor had never taken a genuine interest in Loki’s bedmates, nothing beyond a jest here or there, usually in good humor, even though Loki could not help squirming and feeling awkward every time. This is no exception, never mind that he and Stark are not actually sleeping together. He wonders idly if it is something he’ll eventually grow out of. Shyness isn’t generally like him. 

 

“It might become my business if it also concerns a teammate of mi-“

 

“Leave it, Thor,” Loki says, a little harsher. If Thor thinks he would toy with some mortal just to suit his own ends... He grits his teeth. “It matters not.” 

 

It is a ruse and nothing more, because if the so called Avengers were hand fed a reason for his and Stark’s proximity, they would have less incentive to look for a more honest one. If it meant being thought of as every bit as... promiscuous as Stark, so be it. But to accuse him of, of manipulation has bitterness welling up like bile in his throat. Especially when Thor truly should know better. 

 

Thor sighs, grimacing apologetically as picks at the wrist of one of his vambraces, and changes the subject. 

 

“How many others know of this, this incidence of timewalking?” he asks, fingers skimming deep embossed lines. 

 

“None, to my knowledge. Well, aside from the one who initiated it, I suppose. It is possible Stark is telling someone of it as we speak, but I would presume him bright enough to have a care in this regard, for much the same reason I cannot tell you all that I know. I cannot say where the line between what must always be and what can be altered begins to blur, and unwittingly crossing that line would do me nor him any favors. Doubtless he knows this, and will hold his tongue unless otherwise necessary, as will I.”

 

Thor’s face goes a bit soft at that, at the implication that Loki has taken a chance to speak with him. He nearly smiles then, at Loki, because he is thinking of sentimentality and not necessity. No matter that something in Loki’s chest goes a little soft as well. 

 

“Loki...” Thor says, his tone making Loki’s skin prick, like a warning, because he does not know how to handle _this_ either. His eyes find Loki’s and hold them steady, and Loki’s chest stills in a held breath. “I do not know all of what you’ve been through, either before now or years later, it is true.” Thor leans forward, seems to stop himself from actually reaching his hand out to Loki. “But I do know my brother. You think-“ His throat works. “You think you are so far away, but Loki... I would recognize you anywhere.”

 

Loki flies to his feet with a strangled sound that he hopes is more of a scoff than a sob. Before he can even consider what he is doing, he comes to one of the windows of the room, the glass holding the faintest reflection of his wrecked face. He stills his breathing, heart thrumming in his ears, and there’s nothing for him to touch, to grasp, no outlet for his agitation. His fingers slide through his hair until he can push the panicky feeling down deep.

 

“That’s a pretty thought,” he says, once he can manage to speak without choking, mocking only in the mendacious lightheartedness of his voice. He cannot bring himself to turn around, though, pathetic as that is.  _He_  is supposed to be the liar, the wordsmith with a silver tongue. Not Thor. It is ignorance then, and not overt deceit, because Thor still does not _know_.

 

“Aye,” Thor agrees easily behind him. “And that means it cannot be so?”

 

“How can it? You are right, you do not know what I’ve been through, what I’ve done, who I am. I told you, you do not know _me_ , not this version, and I...” His hand rests against the windowpane, and he has to clench it tight to keep from hitting the glass and watching it break. “I do not know you either. _You_ are not _my_ brother.”

 

He whirls around, because now he does want, _needs_ , to see Thor recoil as the words find their mark. But Thor doesn’t. He stands, raising his hands as if to calm a growling dog, and Loki presses his lips together, fingernails digging into his palms. 

 

“Loki,” says Thor, coming to stand before him until Loki’s back is to the glass, until he can’t avoid any of this. “I want you to listen to my words and listen well, and have no doubt that I mean them.” Loki nods, blinking harshly, and Thor clasps his hand against the back of his neck, the warm weight of it far more comforting and familiar than Loki wishes was true. “It matters not what you have done. What either of us have done,” he adds, after a moment of reflection and something dangerously close to self awareness.  “This time around or any other.” His fingers curl tighter. “There is no version of me who does not love you. Of this I am certain.”

 

Loki shuts his eyes. He wants to shake his head, to find a voice for his denial, but he’s mute in the face of it, because Thor, spoken truly, _is_ certain. Clearly, he believes, and deeply so, what he is saying. Loki would like to believe it too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this fic isn’t intended to be such an angst fest, and will be back to your regularly scheduled flirting and banter before too long. But sometimes Loki’s just... like this, and Tony’s not really having the best day ever either. But we’ll get there.


End file.
